


Dangerous

by flyingisland



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bathroom Sex, Crossdressing, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Shizaya - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 19:02:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6483463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingisland/pseuds/flyingisland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Shizuo wants is to finish his shift in peace. If it isn't rude customers, it's annoying coworkers, and sometimes it's even women who aren't actually women harassing him until he's ready to quit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dangerous

Tableware clatters, voices echoing high above every other noise in the room as Heiwajima Shizuo winds between tables with two steaming plates balanced on top of the tray in his hands. He’s taller than most people, and for that, he is eternally grateful. He manages to deliver it to its table without so much as jostling any of the food.

It’s a busy Saturday night at his second job—waiting tables at a high-brow restaurant over the weekends after his Monday through Friday shifts as a bouncer at some pretentious nightclub.

Despite the snobby customers and the constant fear of breaking a platter over some poor bastard’s head, he can’t say that he minds this gig too much.

The hostess sends him to a table outside of his zone, apologizing profusely as he raises a brow.

“I know,” she sighs, fiddling with the edges of the menus in her hands, “But the girl at the table is really cute, and you know how Chikage-san gets around cute girls. His other tables will complain again.”

Grumbling at the mention of the flirtatious bastard, he agrees. It’s annoying, working a table so far from his area, running completely out of his way to keep up with refills and requests for dessert, but this girl—for the life of him, after three years working together, he still can’t remember her name—has already been harassed by three rude customers tonight, and he’s not sure how comfortable he is with making her shift even worse.

She bows deeply as he shuffles past her, oversized glasses catching the light and obscuring the pink embarrassment on her cheeks.

When he reaches the table, he has to admit, the girl is pretty cute. She’s wearing a short, black dress. The garters of matching stockings peek out from under the hem of it, the glossy toes of her stilettos pressing into the floor. Long hair, shiny and dark, brushes against the bare porcelain of her back. She’s thin and small-chested. Thick, spidery lashes bat at him, half-lidded eyes throwing a crimson-hinted reflection of his frown right back up at him. Pink lips part to greet him, but before even a word can slip past, the man across from her cuts her off.

“We’ll have your finest wine,” he purrs, and Shizuo can sense the discomfort straightening her posture as the man slips his foot forward underneath the table to meet hers, “Bring the bottle.”

He nods, asking them if they’re ready to order. The man barely looks at his menu, batting a hand in the air as he tells Shizuo to bring them both whatever is the most expensive. It’s definitely tacky, and the girl is sending him such fiery looks that he wonders if Chikago would have been a better match for this table after all.

At least he’d be able to flirt back with her.

As it is, she isn’t his type. The long hair and the makeup doesn’t really do it for him.

He brings the ticket to the kitchen.

“Hey, Kadota, I have a big order,” he calls, hanging the paper on the queue as the other man makes his way to the window.

Kadota eyes the ticket for a moment, a knowing grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

“This guy’s really trying his hardest, isn’t he?” he draws out, and Shizuo chances a small smile, “Is his date really that good looking? You know Chikage’s pissed at you for stealing that table.”

Shizuo shrugs.

“I guess,” he replies, shuffling from foot to foot as he tries to remember which wine is the finest (as though that moron would really know the difference anyway), “I don’t know.”

Kadota laughs at that, and he leaves before the conversation steers in the direction that he knows it’s going to.

_“A guy like you? Gay? That can’t be right.”_

He can hear it already.

Grabbing the bottle of wine, he treks back to the now notorious girl’s table. He stops to check up on his other customers on the way, refilling drinks and wishing a few couples a good night.

When he returns, the girl is resting her chin in her hands, smiling at him in the sultriest way anyone has ever looked at him before. He’s filling her date’s glass when he feels it—a pressure against his calf, moving upward. He can spot her leg lifting out of the corner of his eye, the milky whiteness of her thighs peeking over the edge of the garters. Her movements are not obvious enough to alert the other man, and she pulls back slowly, that predatory stare never leaving his face.

“Thank you, waiter,” she breathes, an erotic string of syllables, though so much deeper than he would have expected, “Can you fill me up too?”

He doesn’t really like the way that she says it, but he turns to fill her glass. Her eyes smolder against his skin, fingers ghosting along the edge of the glass as the bottle clinks against it.

“Steady hands,” she hums, “I like that in a man.”

A single brow raised, her teeth play against her bottom lip. He swallows the urge to tell her off. He is not getting paid enough to put up with this.

“Your food will be out shortly.”

He sets the bottle on the table and turns on his heel, nearly tripping over his own feet as he rushes away.

He can’t say that he’s never been harassed before, but definitely not at work. His uniform isn’t exactly flattering—a loose white button-down tucked into black slacks—and the constant scowl that curls his lips can only be described on the best of days as “off-putting”. The boss says that his morose expression adds class to the restaurant, makes it seem as though he’s taking his job very seriously. As far as dates go, however, he finds that most potential boyfriends do not appreciate if their partner always appears to be one step away from strangling the life out of someone.

Kadota calls out when their food is finished.

He’s dreading returning to the table so soon, and the other man can clearly read it on his face. He doesn’t mention it, but something in his stare—it’s annoying.

“Thanks,” he mutters, not willing to look the chef in the eyes.

He takes a deep breath, aching for a cigarette as he straightens his shoulders and carries the tray through the aisles.

When he approaches the couple, the man is telling a story. He’s bragging about something that honestly sounds like a lie, but Shizuo is definitely in no position to care. He doesn’t even notice that his date isn’t paying attention. Her focus has been on Shizuo since he turned the corner, that terrible gaze of hers working small, uncomfortable vibrations up his legs and settling on his crotch.

Belatedly, she slides her eyes upwards, the hint of her tongue between her lips as she sends him a wink.

He’s practically trembling as he sets their plates down. He rests the man’s on the table just a little too roughly, and he pauses in his story to send Shizuo an incredulous look.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, wanting nothing more than to take his goddamn break already.

As he’s setting the girl’s plate down, her fingers brush against his wrist. She pretends to be reaching for the bundle of cutlery close by, but her eyes betray her easily, and he knows she isn’t hiding anything anyway.

“Waiter,” she sighs, a strange color coming to rest along pale cheeks, “Could you escort me to the bathroom? I’m afraid I don’t know the way.”

He stiffens, chancing a glance at her date and noting, dumbfounded, that he doesn’t even seem to comprehend what’s going on. He nods only because he thinks he can turn her down in private if she tries anything. If not, at least she’ll be out of his hair, if only for a moment.

She rises from her seat, making a show of swaying her hips as she steps toward him. He bows shallowly at her date, heart thrumming in his ears as he leads her through the labyrinth of tables toward the restrooms.

She’s following by just a little too closely. At times, he swears he can feel the ghost of nimble fingers brushing against his back, but when he peers toward her, her hands are at her sides.

She doesn’t speak until they’ve reached the door of the women’s room.

Then, she reaches forward, fingers mere centimeters from his burning skin as those dark eyes twinkle mischievously up at him.

He backs away, grasping her hand in his own and glowering down at her. This has gone entirely too far. It’s been a long week, his back his aching, his dress shoes are digging uncomfortable into the arches of his feet, and his break is almost three hours late.

“Cut it out,” he spits, throwing her hand down and taking an additional step back, “I’m not interested.”

She grins at him, obviously not convinced. Even if he leaned that way, this girl would absolutely not be his type. More so than assholes and conceited pricks, he hates anyone who can’t take no for an answer.

“You sure seemed to enjoy looking at my legs.”

He doesn’t even want to think about that. He didn’t spend so many years struggling with his sexuality just to have one stupid woman confuse him again.

She presses forward, resting a palm against his chest. Heat flares where her skin meets his shirt. He can feel the outline of the button digging into his flesh.

“L-listen,” he chokes, making to move away again but finding that his back is planted firmly against the bathroom door, “I’m gay.”

She draws her fingers toward his shoulder, dragging them down his arm and wrapping lithe digits around his wrist. She tugs his arm toward her. He can’t tear his eyes away from the arousal painting her cheeks, the parting of her lips, the way the dress clings to her small shoulders. She pushes his hand between her legs, underneath the hem of the dress against the soft silk of her underwear.

“What a coincidence,” she practically moans, “Does this feel like it belongs to a woman?”

It definitely doesn’t.

An indecent hardness strains against the soft material, growing only stiffer in his palm. His brain fires blankly, all coherent thought fizzling out as he struggles to understand the situation that is currently unfolding before him.

This woman is not really a woman—and he can tell now that he really looks at her. Her jaw isn’t quite soft enough. The front of the dress hangs rather loosely where breasts, even small, might fill it out.

And there’s a dick in his hand.

 “I’m working a job,” she (no, _he_ ) states plainly, as though that explains everything, “Not a prostitute, a host. My client has strange tastes.”

He loosens his grip on Shizuo’s wrist, reaching behind him to fiddle with the doorknob.

“I really didn’t think,” he pauses, pushing open the door and shoving the blond inside, “that I would meet such an irresistible waiter tonight.”

The automatic lights whir to life as he pulls the door closed, clicking the lock. Shizuo opens his mouth to object, but smaller man is closing in. He’s painfully hard, mortified as this strange, beautiful, highly-fuckable man drags his nails along his thigh.

“I’ll skip the appetizers, thanks,” he coos, “I’d rather have the main course.”

This man—frighteningly attractive and wanting him so desperately—drops to his knees, unabashed as the dress rides up along his thighs. He’s working Shizuo’s zipper, gaze tipping up to meet the blond’s eyes as a cocky smile drags out along his lips.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he chirps, tugging Shizuo’s pants down just low enough that his erection bobs eagerly outward, “I’m Orihara Izaya.”

Orihara Izaya doesn’t wait for his introduction, eagerly becoming acquainted with his cock instead. He takes the head between his lips, dragging his tongue along the slit—tortuously sensitive—before easing it deeper into his throat.

 Shizuo leans back against the sink, fingers digging desperately into the porcelain. His toes curl as Izaya picks up the pace, small hands pumping the shaft each time his head pulls back.

After a moment of this, which feels like an eternity or two, the other man is pulling away. He grasps Shizuo’s arm as he steadies himself on his feet, lips swollen and red, eyes deep crimson scars that will surely burn themselves into the blond’s memory for the rest of his days.

“I—“ he shudders, struggling to compose himself as Izaya fishes something out of a tiny pocket in the side of the dress, “I’m not paying you.”

Izaya looks as though he wants to laugh. It seems as though Shizuo has said the funniest thing that he's heard all day.

“Not a prostitute.”

He still doesn’t understand why this is happening. He’s not complaining, really, but…

Why him? Why now? This is not the monotonous life that he leads.

Before he knows it, he’s being pulled down into a rough kiss. Teeth at nibble at his lip, and when he tries to pull away, a tongue slides against his own. He can feel Izaya’s erection tucked between them, aching and eager as his own. The dress is teased up the smaller man’s thighs, he’s turning and leaning over the edge of the sink. Shizuo takes a moment to notice both of their reflections in the mirror.

The wig on the Izaya’s head is slightly misplaced. His hair hangs lopsided. His lipstick is smudged and his mascara stains beneath his eyes, but somehow he seems even sexier than before. He’s shoving something into Shizuo’s hands that crinkles in his grip.

“You’ve used one before, right?”

It’s a condom, extra lubed. He didn’t even know that they made them like that.

He chooses to ignore those implications, tearing it open with shaking hands and taking in the sight of Izaya’s ass as he pulls the dress even higher up.

The silk panties, a thong, frame the small globes nicely. It would be a shame to remove them, he thinks. After sliding the condom around his erection, he presses an oily finger between the other man’s cheeks, nudging the sting of the underwear to the side. Izaya flinches a little, breath fogging the mirror.

And then, Shizuo dips a finger inside.

It’s hot and it’s tight, and Izaya grits out the most erotic noise he’s ever heard. It resonates against the tile of the bathroom walls. The sound of it hums within his ears even as he’s squeezing another finger in.

He doesn’t need to move much, as the other man moves his hips forward and back. He scissors his fingers, groaning at the feeling of those walls clenching around him. His dick twitches, as though begging for him to hurry up and slide inside. And so, he complies.

Izaya doesn’t complain. He hisses a curse, reaching back to grip Shizuo’s belt loops and pulling him further in. His legs are spread out wide, heels clacking against the tile as the exhaust fan roars above them. He feels that he might be forgetting something, but arousal fogs the edges of his memory. This is definitely not the time to be thinking too hard. He’s so horny that he feels lightheaded. He needs this so much more than he’s comfortable with.

(But it’s been so long. Six months? A year? He’s lost count.)

That tightness completely envelops him. Each of Izaya’s little twitches vibrate between them, sending tremors down his spine and along his hips, sprouting a heat in his belly that gives him the strength to pull out only slightly before thrusting back in.

Izaya garbles a moan. His cheek rests against the mirror, the entire top half of his body supported by the sink. Shizuo can barely even see their reflections through the fog of his breath. He can hardly focus on anything but the gentle curves of the other man’s body writhing beneath him.

His thrusts become more confident, quicker and harder. Izaya knows no shame, apparently, his cries akin to noises of girls in all of the pornos Shizuo had watched as a very confused teenager.

Izaya is jerking himself off beneath the mouth of the sink. His cock has sprung free from the confines of his underwear, slick with precum and bright pink against the whiteness of the floor.

He can feel his orgasm drawing closer. Izaya is mewling, _‘Waiter, waiter!’_

Pulling out, he ignores the confused babbling that leaves the other man, gripping him by the hips and pulling him off of the sink. He pushes their lips together, lapping his tongue against Izaya’s as he hoists the other man against the wall.

Without much of a warning, he shoves back inside. Izaya makes an excited, intoxicated sort of sound. He can’t describe it, really. He’s never been a good enough lover to elicit these sorts of responses from another person.

His palms dig into Izaya’s ass, reveling in the feeling of the soft flesh, sweaty and smooth in his hands. They’re kissing still, stopping only for those pleasurable little noises that the smaller man can’t quite seem to suppress.

He sets the pace—lifting Izaya up and sliding him back down. The world seems to shift around them, the oxygen in his lungs never quite enough as he rattles out one breathy moan after another. Foreheads pressed together, staring down into those dark, scarlet-tinted eyes, he jams his hips upward one last time before cum buries itself deep inside of the other man.

His partner is not far behind. Three more strokes of shaking wrists, and he’s throwing his head back in ecstasy. There’s a mess, sticky and slowly cooling, between them. Only when he allows Izaya to find footing on the tile does Shizuo realize that his shift isn’t over for another two hours.

When they leave the bathroom—Izaya's makeup still slightly smudged and wig sticking out in odd directions—he hopes that no one notices the wetness clinging to his clothing.

If anyone asks, he’ll tell them that he spilled someone’s drink.

Izaya and his date don’t stay too much longer after that. They’re leaving. Shizuo is unsure of if he should be written up or fired or what, when Izaya turns in the doorway.

He blows a kiss over his shoulder, winking in a way that bundles the most agonizing heat right in the pit of the blond’s belly.

Three weeks later, Shizuo is closing up after a particularly slow night. He wipes down each table, flipping off the lights in the dining room as the last of the customers shuffle out into the dark streets. Life has carried on—boring but pleasant. He works, he goes to bed, and sometimes he finds the time to hang out with the few friends he has.

He hasn’t heard from the strange man in women’s clothing, hasn’t been able to spot him in the streets. He isn’t even sure if he’d recognize him without the wig and the makeup.

Oh well, it’s probably for the best, he thinks. Someone like that is definitely trouble.

Regardless, the memory of the little bastard, as he expected, has completely seared itself into his thoughts. He can’t even take a piss in the morning without thinking about the feeling of those experienced hands and the way they’d dragged the most mortifying pleasure through him. He can’t jerk off without thinking of those throaty moans. He can’t button up his uniform each morning without remembering the wetness of Izaya’s cum soaking into the fabric.

It’s annoying, really, how one perverted encounter has ruined basically every aspect of his life.

The hostess finishes counting the till, calling over to him and asking if he’s finished tidying up. He nods, returning the cleaning supplies to the kitchen and bristling at the sound of Chikage telling Kadota some inflated story.

He can’t say that Chikage knows what happened for sure, but they definitely haven’t been getting along since Izaya came crashing into his life.

 _“She definitely wasn’t your type,”_ is what he wants to say as he squeezes past the pair, ignoring the tiny holes that Chikage’s eyes are burning into his shoulders and back, but he bites the words. It would definitely start a fight, and he’s not really interested in getting written up for beating the shit out of the moron again.

He clocks out, nodding as the hostess tells him to be careful walking home.

A couple of stragglers smoke against the wall of the restaurant. A few drunken idiots laughs in a tight group further down the sidewalk. He begins the trek back to his apartment, wondering if he should cook or pick something up on the way home, smothering the erotic memories that threaten to resurface again no matter how much he wishes he could just forget about the whole thing.

He’s walking by a nightclub, fiddling with his cigarette carton and searching for his lighter. Just as he’s finally placing a cigarette between his lips, he hears it—

 _“Waiter?”_ in an oh-so familiar voice.

He whirls around, sure that he’s finally lost his mind, and he’s greeted by a vaguely familiar face. Minus the makeup and the wig, the dress and the stockings and heels, he hates to admit it—

But this guy is completely his type.

Heat crawls along his skin. His tongue feels fat and useless inside of his mouth, lips clenching just a little too tightly and crushing the cigarette that hangs, still unlit, between them.

“Are you coming inside?”

He doesn’t understand at first, but his eyes eventually roam to the shining marque above the bar. It’s a host club, and a fancy one at that. Definitely not the sort of thing that he could afford even with both paychecks combined.

He sends the other man a look, already pissed off just from seeing that smug face smirking up at him as though his last three weeks haven’t been Hell just because the bastard couldn’t keep it in his pants.

“I’m going home,” he replies dumbly.

Izaya’s smile curls then, so much more sinister than he’s comfortable with.

“You and your coincidences,” the smaller man drags each syllable slowly through his lips, his voice low and just as gravelly as he can manage, “So am I.”

He doesn’t really get why that’s any of his business, why it matters at all that the two of them are off at the same time, until he finds himself in a stranger’s apartment, tugging Izaya’s shirt over his head and biting every inch of skin that he can reach.

They’re perched on Izaya’s bed—a gigantic thing, so much more comfortable than anything he’s even sat on before—and the smaller man is working his fingers gracefully over his belt. The buckle clicks and the material whirs as it’s pulled through the loops. He can’t focus on much else aside from Izaya’s breathing and the taste of his skin.

He smells like alcohol, like cigarettes and expensive cologne. He tastes like salt and something so sweet that Shizuo is dragging his tongue along the other man’s throat, sucking at the skin before digging his teeth in again.

Izaya lets out a low groan.

“Don’t leave too many marks,” he hisses, tangling his fingers in blond hair, “My clients don’t like it.”

He does it anyway, out of spite. Fuck his customers. Fuck him.

Fuck everything that he’s feeling, all of these urges that he hasn’t been able to squash for three weeks straight.

Izaya falls back onto the bed, reaching his hands toward him in an open invitation. His legs are parted, thighs presses firmly against Shizuo’s hips as he drags him down. They’re kissing, Izaya is pulling down his pants.

They’re panting, and the cold air of the room feels suddenly way too hot. He’s burning, he’s needy. He’s tearing Izaya’s pants down around his ankles, kissing trails down his stomach and stopping to circle his tongue around the eager head of the other man’s erection.

When he swallows it, Izaya’s gasps. Softly, at first, but his noises grow louder and louder the more Shizuo bobs his head. His hips are lifted from the bed, his fingers tug helplessly at Shizuo’s hair. He’s cumming deep inside of the blond’s throat, writhing along the sheets as curses burst from him like firecrackers popping in the silence of the room.

“S-second drawer,” he heaves, eyes open only enough that Shizuo spots slits of dark red peeking up at him, “H-hurry.”

He drags himself toward the nightstand, knowing exactly what Izaya is trying to tell him. In the second drawer, there’s a half-full bottle of lube. He doesn’t want to think about how heavily it’s been used. He dislikes the realization that most people are getting a lot more action than he is.

Carrying himself back over to Izaya, he uncaps the lube, dripping some of it between his fingers and making sure to warm it before tossing the bottle to the side and reaching forward. Izaya spreads his legs, pushing his hips upward without even the slightest hint of embarrassment. On the contrary, he seems to be enjoying himself an awful lot, and Shizuo isn’t sure what exactly the sneaky bastard is getting out of this.

Does he collect new clients by sleeping around? Does he affect everyone like this—cursing them with the best sex they’ll probably ever have, and charging for his attention after the first two times? It’s a good business plan, but definitely not realistic.

He presses a finger inside, relishing the feeling of Izaya’s walls tightening around him. He’s dreamed of this every night for twenty-one days straight. It’s surreal now—experiencing those tantalizing memories all over again.

One finger becomes two, and he’s scissoring his digits as the other man lets loose those little noises that his fantasies never seem to be able to get right. Izaya’s cock is standing erect again already, bobbing forward and back as his movements jostle the bed.

Izaya is ready, and he knows this only because he’s being pulled forward by his hair. He scowls downward, moving into position and digging his teeth into the asshole’s shoulder, right over the purple mark that’s beginning to form there.

And finally, after reminiscing about it for so, so long, he pushes inside.

They’re fucking again, their noises so much less amplified inside of Izaya’s roomy apartment, but no less arousing. Izaya wraps his arms around his neck, pressing wet kisses at the side of his mouth as the headboard clatters against the wall and the fog of pleasure is already beginning to cloud Shizuo’s vision.

Those maddening cries— _‘Waiter, waiter, waiter!’_ –echo in his ears. Nails are dragging angry red marks along his back. He’s hitting a spot inside of Izaya that has both of them seeing stars as the other man clenches so tightly around him that it almost hurts.

Izaya’s legs are wrapped around him, heels digging into his sides as he thrusts roughly inside and drags himself out. The milky white of the collarbone beneath him is littered with so many purpling splotches. Their bodies slap together. Their breathing melds into a noise so loud that he can hear nothing but the two of them together—feel nothing but the indescribable sensation of being consumed completely by another person and the racket of their hearts thundering in each of their chests.

And he cums, strangling out a cry that is definitely not the other man’s name.

Izaya finishes a minute or so later.

They lie together, sweaty and exhausted. He finds patterns in the shadows on the ceiling. He concentrates on the feeling of wet sheets beneath him and the pounding of his pulse in his ears.

Sleep drags needful fingers into his consciousness. He feels his eyes drooping closed, his breathing slowed as his muscles finally manage to relax.

“Waiter” Izaya draws out, tired and cheerful, all hints of his usual hunger completely vanished, “What’s your name, by the way?”

He chokes out a laugh.

“Shizuo.”

Izaya replies, _“It’s nice to meet you”_ and this situation suddenly feels like nothing more than a dream. When he finally allows himself to slip into slumber, he’s positive that he’s made the entire thing up in his head.

But the hours pass and the sun rises. When he awakens, he’s sitting up in a bed that isn’t his with a stranger who isn’t really a stranger wrapping thin arms around his waist and snoring softly into his chest.

He watches as the sun peeks through the curtains, tracing the shadows that it casts along the walls. Izaya’s apartment shows few signs that a person even lives here. It’s pristine, decorated conservatively. No photos hang on the walls. No papers are strewn across the floor. There are movies organized on a shelf across the room in alphabetical order. The closet door is cracked open just enough that he’s greeted with the sight of so many fur-lined coats that he’s sure he might have just fucked a lunatic.

His own apartment, smaller but messier than this one, feels so much more like home. He’s lonely just lying here. He can’t imagine returning to such a place every night.

That might be why the lube was so empty, he muses. He might seek out random bed-mates too, if this were the home he’d chosen to make for himself.

“Are you enjoying the view of my room?” a voice murmurs, hoarse and just a little bit grumpy, “I’m surprised you’re still here.”

Izaya pulls his arms away. He sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes. Natural light plays across the bruises on his skin, purple and red against smooth white. He’s naked and he’s gorgeous. He’s no less delectable than he was last night.

Shizuo gets up as well. He fetches his clothes from the floor, pushing his arms through his sleeves and buttoning up his shirt. Stepping into his pants, he sneaks a few looks at Izaya. He hasn’t made a move to get dressed, and it doesn’t seem as though he will anytime soon. He’s eyeing a spot on the floor that doesn’t appear to be particularly interesting. There’s a strange glimmer in his stare.

“So, uh,” Shizuo draws a blank. He’s never done this before. He really has no idea what to say.

Izaya finally tears his gaze from the carpet, smiling brightly up at him and resting his weight on his arms.

“It’s been fun, Shizuo,” he chirps, such a fake joy that it raises the hairs on the back of Shizuo’s neck, “See you around.”

He’s finally slipped on his shoes, and he stands there awkwardly for a little longer than he should. Feeling foolish, he forces himself to move forward toward the door.

“Yeah, see you around.”

He moves from the bedroom into the living room, from the living room to the front door. Just as he’s about to reach for the knob, an unexpected urge overcomes him. His bones rattle with the need to turn back, to rush into the room and do… something. Anything to strike that sullen look from the other man’s face.

And so, he does.

He’s a little bit breathless when he pushes through the door, and Izaya jumps at the sight of him.

“Did you forget—“

“I’m coming back over tonight.”

Izaya’s eyes are wide for only a moment. They stare at each other in silence, both hearts thundering in unison.

And then, Izaya laughs.

It’s not sneaky and there are no ulterior motives in the way he moves from the bed toward Shizuo this time. He rests a hand against the blond’s chest, head cocked to the side.

Stretching to the tips of his toes, he plants a final kiss on Shizuo’s lips.

“What a coincidence,” he sighs, lashes low, mirth apparent in the color pooling under his skin, “I was just thinking that I should have invited you.”

And Shizuo remembers, so belatedly, that he should have been at work half an hour ago.

**Author's Note:**

> So I've been playing a sort of... game, I guess, on tumblr for awhile. Sort of, 'Guess this secret kink of mine and I will write you a one-shot.' It's been awhile, but someone finally guessed correctly and sent me this prompt:
> 
> "maybe shizuo is a waiter and izaya is like on a really crappy date with another asshole or client (he's crossdressing though plz cause that's my kink) so they somehow end up hooking up instead (au where they don't know each other at first?) lol it could be like izaya is hitting on shizuo but shizuo is like gay, oh wait you're actually a dude wow nvm let's date idk"
> 
> It was extraordinarily fun to write! I like to think that Izaya would make a really good Host, actually. His sneaky charm could definitely empty some pockets!
> 
> I hope you liked it, anonymous! And I hope everyone else enjoyed it as well!


End file.
